The Great Divider

Is the border the wedge issue of our time…or just a line in the sand? A message from George Saunders. PLUS: How you can make a difference

Not long after I got back from my trip along the Mexican border, I got a
call from my sister, whoís an occupational therapist in New Orleans. An
undocumented Mexican kid, 21 years old, had fallen off a roof and broken his
neck at level C3. He was paralyzed from the neck down and the prognosis was
not good. He was uninsured, and, though Medicaid covered the cost of his
surgery, he was out of luck as far as subsequent rehabilitation, or a
wheelchair sophisticated enough to give him even a semblance of a life.
Needless to say, he doesnít have much to look forward to. (The consulting
neurosurgeon has communicated to my sister that he thinks it unlikely the
kid will ever get any function back).

My sisterís been doing this kind of work for over 20 years, but told me
sheís never had a case affect her as much as this one. The boy, who was
unmarried, had been working in the U.S. since he was 17 and sending all of
his money home to his mother in Veracruz. ďThis boy is the sweetest, most
polite person,Ē my sister wrote me, ďand I wake up at night thinking about
him.Ē She described how, despite what must be a terrifying situation (the
hospital has delayed telling him the full story on his condition, in hopes
that his mother could be brought to the U.S. beforehand) he has been
unfailingly gracious—even apologetic—to the people caring for him.

This story particularly moved me, I guess in part because Iíd just come back
from the border, where Iíd seen what odds these immigrant workers struggle
against; how the deck is stacked against them from both sides, when all they
are really trying to do is make a decent living for themselves and their
loved ones. One thing it seemed all sides of this debate agreed on when I
was down there is this: the weight always falls on the little guy.

Anyway, my sister and I have undertaken a kind of modest mission to try and
improve this kidís situation, and GQ has generously allowed me to post here.
I appreciate their generosity, and yours. Our main goal is to provide him
with a wheelchair adequate to his needs. Anything we collect beyond that
will go to help him get re-established at home, receive the additional
rehabilitation heíll need, and help out his family the best we can.

If youíd like to send a check, please send it to: P.O, Box 302, DeWitt, New
York, 13214, made out to ďFund for N.M.," and heíll get every damn cent.

Thanks so much, and Happy Holidays.

George Saunders

*****

Once upon a time, there was a wealthy country. Just to the south was a poor country. Between them ran a border. People from the poor country were always sneaking over, trying to partake of the wealth of the wealthy country. The people in the wealthy country resented this. Or some did. Some seemed fine with it, and even helped them once they got here. Some said it was a crisis and a big wall was needed. Others said: What crisis, itís been going on for years, plus they work so cheap, you want to pay nine bucks for a freaking quart of strawberries? The national media seized on the story and, as always, screwed it up: reduced it to pithy sound bites, politicized it, and injected it with faux urgency, until, lo, the nation was confused.

Then, a man, a Writer—me, actually—decided to venture forth, to ﬁnd some answers. Was it a crisis? Was all this excitement justiﬁed? Might terrorists someday come in across the border? Was the border really rife with drug-related crime? I went boldly, driving from Brownsville, Texas, to San Diego, California, armed with the ancient tools: objectivity, open-mindedness, a laptop, a rented minivan—a Chrysler Town & Country, to be exact, with electronic everything, including rear and sliding side doors. So as our story unfolds, please imagine these doors periodically sliding/flying open, in the middle of epic southwestern landscapes, for no reason at all, or simply because Iíve tried to change the radio station.

Go to Jail, After Eight Times, Go Directly to Jail

In the temporary detention center at the Laredo North Border Patrol Station, a Mexican kid slumps in a chair at a processing desk. Heís going to jail for at least three months, because this is the eighth time heís been caught illegally entering the United States, and the systemís patience has finally been exhausted.

Border Patrol Agent One runs a hand shyly over his new haircut, which is nearly a buzz.

Then I look over at the kid. Heís sitting there expressionless, a small cat among large dogs. And now heís got to endure this balding talk, this nervous braying laughter, before he can get to the next enjoyable step (being processed), and on to the part where he gets sent o¨ to a foreign jail.

My heart goes out to him.

Sort of.

Because empathy depends on how youíve spent your day. Iíve just spent mine driving around in a ďmarked caged unitĒ with Agent Three, a.k.a. Dan Garibay: visiting the muddy clearings where illegal aliens change into dry clothes after they cross, inspecting fence-cuts, driving past safe houses, hearing agents talk about tracking groups of illegals for eleven straight hours. Iíve learned that itís now more profitable to traffic in humans than in drugs; that MS-13, a Salvadoran gang, is in a death struggle with the more traditional Mexican Mafia; that Border Patrol agents in Laredo are routinely shadowed by spies from the smuggling cartels who, in turn, are shadowed by a newly formed countersurveillance unit.